


Ever Tried: Oneshots by bakerstbois

by bakerstbois



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Omnibus, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerstbois/pseuds/bakerstbois
Summary: A collection of oneshots by bakerstbois. The first seven were originally posted as separate works.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 16





	1. Wedding Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 221B ficlet.

The low, sweet sound of a violin rang out across the lawn. Emerging from the sliding glass door was Sherlock Holmes, wearing in an impeccable black tuxedo with a white dress shirt and black bow-tie. Of course, it was perfectly tailored, clinging to him in all the right places and accentuating his thin, wiry frame.

He was the most beautiful thing John Watson had ever seen.

As he took the step off the wooden deck and into the grass, his gaze (which had been wandering over the small assembly gathered) and settled onto John. The doctor felt his smile grow as Sherlock looked him over, his sense of wonder only evident in his iridescent eyes.

Sherlock drew nearer and nearer, not seeming to notice anyone or anything but his fiancé standing under the simple wooden arch. It was if a spotlight was trained on John, but he found that he didn’t mind.

John reached for Sherlock’s hands as he approached, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Are you nervous?” he asked with a smile, feeling as if his heart would burst with pure joy.

Sherlock scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. We’ve been planning this for months now, took every consideration and caution, besides the fact that—“

“I am too,” John admitted with another squeeze of his hands. Sherlock‘s gaze softened just a tiny bit.


	2. A Solid Deduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> August 2018’s Always1895 prompt was bearded!John, but I personally am not a fan of facial hair, so I only followed the prompt loosely.

“You’re home early,” Sherlock remarked, fingers steepled over his mouth as he lay motionless on the couch. “Didn’t expect you for another forty-seven minutes.”

John huffed a laugh, dropping his duffel bag on the carpeted floor with a quiet ‘whump’. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Despite the fact that his eyes were closed, John knew that Sherlock rolled his eyes as he replied, “You were only gone for four days. I’d barely noticed your absence.”

“Mm,” John hummed in agreement, glancing around the half-demolished flat. “You just decided to buy a week’s worth of newsprint and toss it around the living room because you were bored, then.”

“It’s only five days’ worth, actually,” Sherlock countered, finally cracking open his eyes. “There’s no post on Su—what on earth have you done to your face?”

For one heart-stopping second, John thought he had a horrible, gaping wound on his forehead that was bleeding onto the carpet. Before he could ask what the problem was, he realized—he’d forgotten to take his razor to the conference and the front desk at the hotel he'd stayed at was out of them.

“It’s hardly even enough to be considered stubble,” John smirked, reaching up to feel the short bristles on his chin and cheeks. “Just because you can’t grow any facial hair doesn’t mean the rest of the world shouldn’t.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened. “I most certainly am capable of growing _facial hair_ , John. I just don’t think that homeless drug addict is a good look on me.”

“You would know,” John retorted before he could think, immediately regretting the words. “I—no. That wasn’t—I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

The detective’s face had gone from irritated to slate-blank in the blink of an eye. “Oh, no, go on. Deduce me. Tell me more about my addict days. You’ve learned my methods… except, no, Mycroft has told you about my brief stint of vagrancy.”

The meaning behind Sherlock’s words were as clear as if he had said them aloud: _I know that you chat in secret with Mycroft about my drug habits._

“It… has come up once or twice, yes,” John replied stiffly, suddenly very uncomfortable with the conversation. “Look, if you really hate my stubble that much, then I’ll shave it.” _Never mind the fact that it was itchy._

Sherlock swung his legs around suddenly and stood, stepping unceremoniously over the coffee table as he beelined for John. “Oh, no. It’s the ‘look’ now, isn’t it? All the ladies will _swoon_ over John Watson with a beard. Just think of all the dates on your horizon.”

The conversation, which was getting stranger and stranger with every word, was thankfully cut short by a crisp rap on the door.

“Who-who! I heard you come in, John, and wanted to say hello.” Mrs Hudson beamed at John as she glanced over him. “Oh, don’t you look dashing; my husband used to wear a beard. It made him look more mature, I think. Not that you didn’t look mature before,” she added with a chuckle.

John smiled graciously at her, wishing desperately that he had just remembered his bloody razor when he left for Dublin on Friday morning. “Yes, well, I don’t think I’m keeping it.”

Mrs Hudson sagged in relief. “Oh, _good._ I don’t think it suits you. And Sherlock prefers clean-shaven men, don’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock cast Mrs Hudson a strange look before huffing and stomping off toward his bedroom. “I have a pressure-sensitive experiment to run in my bedroom, so don’t open the door.”

John raised my eyebrows at Mrs Hudson, who shook her head fondly. “Always a touch dramatic, that one,” she sighed. “I have some biscuits in the oven. I’ll bring some up when they’re ready.”

She fluttered away, muttering to herself about the state of the flat (“The mess Sherlock leaves! You’d think he was raised by animals.”) and John trekked to the bathroom, finally able to rid himself of the apparently offensive scruff.

~~~

“What did Mrs Hudson mean?” John broke the silence, looking up from his newspaper. Sherlock cracked an eye open, one leg dangling off the couch as he thought.

“On which occasion?”

The doctor cleared his throat, sitting up in his armchair. Her statement had been eating away at him all day as he puzzled what it could mean, but he had no leads. He preferred hairless flatmates? Doctors? Partners in crime? “When she said that you prefer your men clean shaven,” John finally clarified when it became apparent that Sherlock wasn’t going to guess.

Sherlock huffed, nestling himself into the couch even further. “She is under the impression that I have, in the past, taken on male lovers and that I prefer them without facial hair.”

John cleared his throat. Several seconds passed without any further explanation. “It’s… a false impression, then?”

Sherlock’s nose bunched up. “No. Beards give me rugburn.”

A shocked laugh escaped John’s throat before he could contain it. Of course, he had had his speculations about Sherlock’s sexuality, but John had always assumed that Sherlock was some level of asexual.

Sherlock cracked one eye open again, peering hesitantly at John. “It’s been a very long time. I don’t—I haven’t taken on any lovers for several years.”

“I mean, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I think I might’ve noticed if there was an extra bloke at the breakfast table,” John pointed out with a smirk, trying to seem nonchalant. Sherlock swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But I agree. Beards chafe and make intimacy very uncomfortable,” John finally added.

It was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised—his mouth popped open into a perfect ‘O’ as he shot upright, nearly falling off the couch. “You—what?”

John flushed, surprised by his own audacity. He, of course, thought that Sherlock already knew, but there are some things that he never thought he would need to say aloud. “You didn’t deduce that I’m bisexual?”

Sherlock was still staring at John in shock, mouth agape. John could practically see the wheels turning in the detective’s brain as he re-analyzed every bit of information he had about John in search of clues that he had missed.

“You said you weren’t gay,” Sherlock finally stated, blinking rapidly. “I didn’t… I thought I was just incorrect about—”

“Your gaydar?” John finished with a laugh. “Christ, we’re both idiots.”

Sherlock’s gaze flickered shyly up to John’s, causing the doctor’s stomach to swoop in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time. “Can I assume that some of my other… deductions… are correct, then?”

John swallowed, suddenly nervous. “I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me what they are.”

Sherlock licked his lips, eyes flickering across John’s face, before suddenly standing and making his way to John’s chair. Sherlock bent down as John looked up, their noses brushing.

John could feel his pulse in his throat as he swallowed again, suddenly very aware that Sherlock’s eyes were an impossible shade of slate blue. They both hesitated, breaths mingling, before Sherlock finally closed the space between them and pressed his surprisingly soft lips to John’s.

Fireworks bloomed behind John’s eyelids as he tensed, suddenly hyper-aware of his situation. Sherlock placed his hand on John’s elbow, guiding him to stand, never breaking the kiss. It seemed to go on and on, chaste and passionate and hot and cold and more than John could have ever hoped for, or even imagined… and then Sherlock was pulling back, face flushed and a ridiculous grin on his face.

“I’d say that was a pretty solid deduction, yeah,” John agreed before leaning in for another kiss.


	3. Wonder, Lust, and Reverence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The June 2018 Always1895 prompt was “cuddles”.

As John’s mind slowly rose from the smoky haze of sleep, the first thing he became aware of was how terribly uncomfortable he was. His neck was cricked at an awkward angle on the arm of the sofa, the entire right side of his body pressed firmly against the back rest while his left leg dangled off the couch. Judging by the pounding headache, dry mouth, and vague sense of regret, he’d been drinking last night, and he longed desperately for a glass of water and a paracetamol.

The second thing he noticed was that he was not alone on the couch. There was a head pressed to his chest, hair tickling John’s neck. Their legs were intertwined, which made a swift escape very difficult indeed. Against his hips he could feel a chest rising and falling gently, soft breaths huffing in and out of his companion.

John slowly cracked his eyes opened, stretching his neck as best he could without waking the other lodger. For several seconds he simply reveled in the joy of having woken up pressed against another before he realized.

_He was cuddling with Sherlock Holmes._

John’s eyes closed again as he melted into the touch, a small sigh escaping his lips. When Sherlock woke he would be absolutely dismayed at their situation… but then again, bodies were only transport to him, so maybe not. But for now, John was going to enjoy this stolen moment of intimacy with his flatmate.

He tried to recall the events of the previous evening leading up to such a strange sleeping arrangement. They’d finished a particularly difficult case last night and bought a bottle of Jack Daniels to celebrate. After several drinks, John’s memory went hazy, but he vaguely remembered suggesting they watch Star Wars: A New Hope. Had they put in the disk and fallen asleep watching it? That seemed the most likely. More likely than John seducing Sherlock into cuddling, in any case.

One of Sherlock’s arms dangled over the edge of the sofa, the other bent awkwardly between John’s leg and the back of the couch, long fingers splayed possessively across John’s hip. For several minutes John simply laid in silence, basking in the fact that Sherlock Holmes was laying on top of him. Of course it was only an accident, and Sherlock would leap up the moment he woke, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it while it lasted.

Pretending to be platonic with his best friend was getting harder and harder by the day, it seemed. John shifted slightly, sinking lower into the couch to relieve his aching neck.

“Finally awake, are you?” Sherlock commented, voice creaky with disuse but decidedly not groggy with sleep. Sherlock lifted his head off John’s chest, meeting John’s shocked gaze.

“How long have you been awake, then?” John asked, strangely embarrassed.

“Not long. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen,” Sherlock replied. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

John swallowed. “Well, thanks. I mean, I needed the sleep,” he added quickly, wanting to clarify that he was _not_ thankful for the extra few minutes spent intertwined with the detective.

“I know. But now I need the loo.”

John sighed internally, irrationally disappointed that Sherlock was leaving him so soon. John carefully lifted his leg so the detective could detract his, Sherlock’s torso twisting as he untangled himself from John. As Sherlock shuffled off to use the toilet, John resituated himself, carefully turning his neck to a better angle. He really should have just gone upstairs to his own bed, but he was still exhausted and the couch was too comfortable to leave just now.

John kept his eyes closed as the detective returned from the loo, afraid that his desire for Sherlock would show on his face if he looked over. Sherlock padded around the living room for a minute before making his way back to the couch.

“What?” John griped after a few seconds of silence, eying the detective with disdain. His annoyance melted very quickly when he saw the somber look on Sherlock’s face. “What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

“I—” Sherlock began, eyes sweeping over the doctor, seeming to catalogue every detail. Finally, their eyes met, cerulean and icy blue, and (like always) John felt as if he’d been touched by a live wire.

Wordlessly, John scooted over on the couch, leaving just enough room for Sherlock to perch himself alongside his flatmate. Sensing Sherlock’s discomfort, John turned himself on his side so that he faced the front of the couch.

Sherlock shifted, too, so that their faces were centimetres apart. Somewhere in the flat a clock was ticking and the early dawn light was beginning to seep through the windows, casting a surreal glow on everything it touched. _This must be a dream,_ John thought as their breaths mingled. He was sure his breath smelled stale with sleep and Sherlock’s wasn’t much better, but John found that he didn’t care in the slightest.

Sherlock’s breath hitched as John glanced up to his eyes, surprised to find that his own wonder, lust, and reverence were matched in the detective’s gaze as well. John leaned forward slightly so that their lips brushed together feather-light, too afraid to ruin the moment. Sherlock swallowed, the noise audible in the silent flat.

Without a word John pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock’s, amazed at how impossibly soft they were. Beneath him, his arm was going numb, so he pulled back to rearrange. Sherlock’s gaze was filled with awe as John lifted himself up so that he straddled the detective, stomachs and chests pressed together as John leaned in for a second time and claimed Sherlock’s mouth with his own.

Sherlock sighed, his hands running along John’s spine and settling at his shoulder blades. This kiss was more urgent, somehow—John’s tongue traced Sherlock’s bottom lip and the detective gasped, his own tongue hesitantly poking out to meet John’s.

John groaned into Sherlock’s mouth, suddenly _very_ aware that the arousal pooling in his stomach was about to become obvious, seeing as his crotch was flush against Sherlock’s stomach. “Sherlock,” John grit out, unsure if it was a warning or a plea.

The detective’s eyes were heavy-lidded with lust, his kiss-bruised lips twisting into a smirk. “Don’t worry. Me too.” To make his point clear, he twisted his hips so that his half-hard cock pressed against John’s thigh.

John laughed breathily, almost lightheaded with giddiness. “Well, then, are we calling it quits?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Why? Do you want to?”

“No! No, it’s just… I don’t want to rush it. With you. What if you decide that you don’t want… this?” John asked, indicating between them. “It would make things very difficult.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “John Watson, I’ve wanted this since you limped into the lab at Bart’s on January 29, 2010.”

John felt his face warm. “Oh. Really? I mean, me too, but I thought you were—”

“Asexual?” Sherlock supplied. “Most people think that. I’m gay, John. I’ve fancied you for two years.”

John licked his lips, brain suddenly frozen. “Really?” he asked again.

“Yes, really,” Sherlock smiled, pulling himself up so that John was straddling his lap. “And I am positive that I want nothing more than to get off with you. If you want to, that is,” Sherlock added, face falling slightly.

John laughed at the absurdity of his implication. “Sherlock, why do you think I haven’t had an actual relationship with a woman since I met you? It’s hard to get too invested in someone when you’re in love with your flatmate.”

The words hung heavy in the air, almost palpable. John swallowed, embarrassed by his admittance but unwilling to take it back.

“I love you, too, John. I love you in ways I didn’t think I was capable of.” Sherlock finally replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he beamed at the doctor.

“Look at us. We’re both idiots,” John laughed before smashing his mouth against Sherlock’s, their teeth clacking almost painfully. John’s erection, which had flagged during their touching exchange, returned with full force, and he was amazed to feel that Sherlock was having much the same reaction.

Breaking apart so that John could kiss Sherlock’s neck, he experimentally ground his cock into Sherlock’s. Both men moaned, Sherlock’s hands gripping John’s arse and pressing his closer. John pushed against the detective again, the friction just enough to satisfy him. It was like they were teenagers all over again, rutting in the basement while his mum was cooking dinner.

John began to thrust rhymically against Sherlock, finding a perfect tempo. John could feel sweat beading on his brow as he fought to keep himself going, already close to orgasm. With each thrust a zap of electricity jolted through John, making him moan.

“Fuck, Sherlock, I’m close,” John grit out, feeling his legs going warm as his orgasm built.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, squeezing John’s arse before cumming in his pants.

The doctor watched in amazement as Sherlock threw his head back, his face and neck going red. John could feel his cock spasming against his own. After several seconds of silence, he drew in a deep, ragged breath before moaning, “Fuck.”

Apparently that was enough to send John over the edge. He cried out as his cock twitched, sending spurt after spurt of cum into his pants. His jeans were starting to soak through, he could tell, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care one iota.

Coming down from his high, John sighed as he rested his slightly sweaty face on Sherlock’s chest, their legs intertwining. “That was… interesting,” Sherlock finally stated, one hand idly stroking John’s hair.

John hummed in agreement, already falling back asleep. “Maybe next time we can do it properly. On a bed and everything.”

Sherlock chuckled, placing a gentle kiss on the top of John's head. "Maybe," he agreed.


	4. Sherlock Holmes and the Great Faeces Fiasco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this one came about after a discussion in the Softlock Juancoco group chat. I don’t remember the conversation, but it was a good one.

When John Watson moved into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes was very aware that he needed to make changes to his lifestyle. Quickly.

He could no longer leave body parts out in the open or store them in anything used in either food preparation or consumption. His assorted drug paraphernalia which he kept for strictly medicinal and/or scientific purposes had to be meticulously hidden from his new flatmate. He could no longer walk around the flat completely starkers (while John was home, anyway.) All these changes were annoyances, yes, but nothing that Sherlock would lose any proverbial sleep over. None except one.

_Recent Searches:_

_how to not poop_

_how to poop secretly_

_how to train your body for a poop schedule_

_how to make poop smell better_

_best air fresheners for bathrooms_

The first six months went surprisingly well. John never knew when Sherlock had last defecated or that he even pooped at all. (John was under the false impression that Sherlock was some sort of super-human who could control all bodily functions at will, which was only _slightly_ untrue.) The combined efforts of a slightly altered diet, carefully timed bowel movements, and the best air fresheners that money could buy all worked very nicely to keep John Watson in the dark about his bowel movements.

Until they didn’t.

Looking back, there was nothing Sherlock could have done to avoid it. In any case, his little game would not have lasted forever. But the detective didn’t expect it to be so _embarrassing_ —even years later, long after the fourteenth of August, 2010, there mere _thought_ of the event is enough to make Sherlock Holmes’ cheeks go a mottled sort of reddish-pink. John, however, loves the story and takes every chance he has to tell it. Although it has been slightly embellished over the years, his version goes something like this:

_It just so happened that on this particular day, a fuse blew at the surgery and they sent us all home early. There I was, climbing the stairs, minding my own business, when I hear the loudest bloody fart I have ever heard in my life--_

(By now Sherlock is scowling and wishes he could sink into the groud.)

_\--I mean, it was a bloody trumpet, I’m telling you. I don’t know how enough pressure had built up in him for him to make that kind of sound. I was a bit startled, I can tell you._

_Anyway, I ignore it and go to the kitchen and start to make myself a sandwich. Just then, Sherlock rips another one. It wasn’t quite as loud, but it was long and had a lot of vibrato to it. It was impressive, I think the floor rattled a bit. Honestly, if he could train his arse to do that on command, he could make good money._

_So ten minutes go by, I’m sitting in my chair reading over the newspaper, and Sherlock comes barging out of the bathroom like a man on fire. He flies around the kitchen like a tornado for a minute before he goes completely quiet._

_He’s standing in there silently for so long that I turn to see what he’s doing, and he’s staring at me like I’m a bloody ghost or something, clutching the kitchen table like he’s about to faint. I’d never seen him so horrified by anything._

_“What?” I say, thinking I’ve grown a second nose or something awful._

_“When did you get home?” Sherlock whispers, still clinging to the table for dear life._

_“I got home maybe fifteen minutes ago,” I tell him, still not sure why he’s acting like this._

_“And did you hear-?” he asks me, and it’s then that I realize that Sherlock Holmes is_ mortified _by the fact that I heard him pass gas._

_And I feel bad about it now, but I laughed at him and told him that I had. The poor bloke gets so flustered that he storms to his bedroom, and I could hear him banging about in there for maybe twenty minutes before I decide to use the loo._

_It smelled like someone had_ died _in there—_

And this is where Sherlock gets all huffy, so eager to contradict his flatmate that he stumbles over his own words— “John is—he’s making that up! I didn’t— the bathroom did not _smell._ ”

And John just laughs and rolls his eyes and continues,

_Okay, so it didn’t really smell too bad, but I could definitely tell Sherlock had just shat in there. That’s when I realized I had never known Sherlock to poop, and there have only been a few times since then that he has let his guard down enough for me to get a whiff of his shite._

Sherlock sighs, face still uncomfortably hot, but mostly just feeling relieved that John has finished his story.

Then John nudges his flatmate playfully, smiling conspiratorially at whomever was forced to hear this story. “But he has to put up with smelling my shit every day since I don’t bother hiding it because I’m not a posh git who pretends he doesn’t even fart.”

And despite himself, Sherlock smiles ruefully at that.


	5. Baignade à Deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for [Char](/users/alwaysanoriginal).

“I am not an _infant_ , John,” Sherlock huffed, sounding for all the world like a petulant child.

The doctor shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it carelessly on the rack. “Of course not. Doesn’t mean you don’t need tending to every now and again.”

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock turned toward John, his pale face a stark contrast to the bruised cut colouring his temple. “I know how to properly _bathe_ myself. I don’t need you to hover over me like a worried mother.”

John closed the space between them, smiling as he leaned his forehead against the detective’s chest. “Look, I know you don’t need my help. But it’s been a long day and I’m exhausted and nothing would please me more than taking a nice hot bath with you before going to bed.”

Sherlock arms automatically enfolded his doctor, his right cheek resting on the top of John’s head. “You’re impossible.”

John smiled, tilting his head up to look at the detective. “I know. Now come on, it’s bath time.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but allowed John to lead him to the bathroom. “You know, I could’ve solved the case at least two days sooner if it weren’t for the incompetence of Scotland Yard.”

John hummed in agreement, crouching to get the water running. Sherlock took the moment to admire him- his lean back muscles rolling as he reached and turned the knobs, his short blonde hair peppered with a few greys (despite John’s denials)- somehow, miraculously, all his.

Sherlock mindlessly unbuttoned his ocean blue shirt, shrugging it off alabaster shoulders. John turned away from the claw foot tub just as Sherlock was removing his belt.

The smile John gave him was full of love and admiration and awe and a thousand other nameless emotions that made Sherlock feel- well, _feel_. Tears stung at the back of his eyes and he brushed them away impatiently.

In a moment John was on his feet, peering worriedly at the detective. “What is it, love?”

Sherlock smiled reassuringly, leaning down so his face was even with John’s. “You.”

John’s brilliant smile returned, his minty breath fanning across Sherlock’s face as he kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose, filling the bathroom with a different sort of light than the fluorescents overhead. “Come on then, let’s get you undressed.”

_This_ was one of the few positives of this mandated bath time. He stepped slowly out of each shoe after John had unlaced them, pulling his trousers and pants off in one go. Last were the socks- John peeled them off reverently as if they were the Shroud of Turin wrapped around his ankles.

Before Sherlock had time to argue, John had stood and pulled off his jumper and undershirt and was reaching for his fly.

“I believe that’s my job,” Sherlock interrupted with a cheeky smirk. He took a step forward, looming over John as he reached down to unzip his denims. Through the fabric Sherlock felt the doctor’s cock stir weakly, but they were both too exhausted to acknowledge it.

Leaving John to remove his own socks, Sherlock tested the bath water. Of course it was the perfect temperature, not a single degree different than Sherlock would have prepared it to be. John never ceased to amaze. “Let me in first,” John protested as the detective went to step in. “I’m going to wash your hair.”

Sherlock froze, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

John matched the detective’s perplexed expression. “God, you’ve never had your hair washed properly, have you?”

Sherlock scoffed. “There’s not much to it, John.”

John shook his head in wonder. “I am about to rock your world, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and bit back a sarcastic remark, stepping aside to let the doctor into the tub first. Once he had settled, Sherlock climbed in as well, nestling between John’s spread legs.

The water sloshed over their warm bodies, and Sherlock marveled at how pleasant the sensation of John’s wet chest pressed against his own back was. Who knew bathing could be so enjoyable?

John cupped a handful of hot water, gently pouring it onto the detective’s ivory curls. Little streams flowed down Sherlock’s temples and nose, and he sunk lower so John could access his head with more ease.

Behind him, John twisted to the left to grab a bottle of shampoo. Judging by the angle of his torso to the wall, he was reaching for his own shampoo instead of Sherlock’s- he almost protested, but the inexplicable draw to John’s scent held him back. With an all-too-familiar flick, John opened the bottle, pouring twice as much shampoo into his palm as Sherlock would have. Sherlock tensed as he waited for John’s fingers to jab into his sensitive scalp, but no such touch came. Instead, John carded his soapy fingers through the detective’s curls, his short nails gently scraping.

Shuddering, Sherlock leaned into the touch. John chuckled breathily into his ear, fingers curling as he restarted the process. “Feel good?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but found that his linguistic capabilities had gone temporarily offline. Instead, he let out a half-groan, half-purr. John laughed again.

“I told you I would rock your world.”

Sherlock felt his soapy hair congealing beneath his doctor’s fingers as they rubbed circles into his head. This was certainly not how the detective usually washed his hair.

“You had me so scared, Sherlock,” John whispered into Sherlock’s left ear as his fingernails scraped the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I thought they were going to kill you.”

Sherlock jerked away from John’s soothing ministrations, turning to face the doctor sternly. Bath water sloshed out of the tub and onto the linoleum with a weak splash. “John Hamish Watson, it would take a lot more than a couple of idiotic thugs to do me in. You cannot spend your entire life worrying for me. No one should take on a responsibility like that. I’m too liable to get hurt for you to be able to stop every single punch that is thrown at me.”

John pursed his lips. “Doesn’t mean I can’t try, though.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, resettling between the doctor’s strong thighs. “You’re impossible,” he sighed for the second time that evening.

John cupped water in his hands and rinsed Sherlock’s hair, the soapy water streaming down his closed eyelids. “I still need to tend to that cut. It doesn’t look very good, but it’s not serious.”

Of course, Sherlock already knew this, but he also knew that the doctor found comfort in taking care of him. “Well, you’ve finished washing my hair, so can we get out now? You’re exhausted I’m sure.”

John wrapped his strong arms around Sherlock and kissed his right shoulder. “If you want. You need sleep, too, you know.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, keeping up the pretense that he wasn’t tired even though they both knew he was just as exhausted as the doctor. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”

John reached for their soft white bath linens as Sherlock reached forward and plucked the cover off the drain, watching the soapy water spiral and disappear. He stiffened as John rubbed his head with a towel, easing once he realized how gentle John was. He allowed the doctor to dry his hair for several minutes, only standing when goose-pimples erupted across his arms. John toweled off the detective carefully, ensuring every inch was dry before stepping out of the tub and heading for the medicine cabinet.

Sherlock followed suit and sat on the covered toilet, towel firmly wrapped around his waist. Despite John’s thorough drying, the ends of his curls were dripping slowly onto his back, and he shivered as John assembled the required supplies.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed as the cold, burning ointment was smeared across his temple by expert fingers. John carefully cleaned, disinfected, and bandaged the cut, finishing the ritual with a kiss to the covered wound. “There. You’re free to go.”

“What do I owe you, Doctor?” Sherlock asked, smiling crookedly.

John’s eyes flashed with desire before he reigned himself in. “We can discuss payment tomorrow, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock laughed as the doctor carefully washed his hands, following John out the door and down the hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom. Wordlessly, they both pulled on their pyjamas, stifling yawns as they crawled under the covers.

Sherlock snuggled up against John, amazed by his body heat. John kissed the top of his freshly cleaned head, wrapping an arm around the detective.

“You’re an idiot, Sherlock Holmes,” John yawned, reaching for the lamp.

“That’s why I have you, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock murmured as they both drifted off to a contented sleep.


	6. The Mystery of the Glowing Algae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a series of tweets by [vitruvianjohn](https://www.twitter.com/vitruvianjohn%E2%80%9D). I wish I could link the tweets but I don’t remember what they were and they’re 3 years old now.

Sherlock hadn't even hung up his coat on the rack in the living room before John was speaking.

"Sherlock..." the doctor started, pausing to choose his phrasing carefully, "how the hell did you work out my computer password?"

Sherlock shrugged, flopping onto the couch and rubbing his lower lip idly. "Honestly, John, you're transparent. It took me less than three minutes and only four failed attempts."

John sputtered as he looked from Sherlock's face down to his laptop (which was resting in his lap) and back up again. "Transp- Sherlock, it was the last four digits of the last three credit cards I've had! You never even saw the first one."

"Yes, well, I've seen your online account records," Sherlock replied idly, obviously retreating into his Mind Palace. Probably to dig up John's childhood telephone number as well, which was his current password.

"You have your own laptop. Look, on my laptop, I even made you a guest account! There's no need to log onto mine," John snarked.

"I have to have administrative permission to download anything in my account. Might as well skip that and use yours."

So he was listening.

John sighed as he shifted in his chair, thinking. He needed to think of a password that would irritate his flatmate, and he knew just the one.

~~~

John gaped at his computer screen.

'INCORRECT PASSCODE. (3) ATTEMPT/S REMAINING.'

He was sure he had typed it right. He'd double checked, triple checked- hell, he'd even typed it out one letter at a time, like an imbecile.

Even so, he typed it one last time- 'suckmydickSherlock'.

'INCORRECT PASSCODE. (2) ATTEMPT/S REMAINING.'

"Sherlock!" John shouted into the kitchen. A few seconds later, the detective was standing in the doorway, goggles on his forehead.

"Yes?" he pressed, clicking the tongs he held. "I'm on a time crunch. I don't have time for chatter."

John took a deep breath in through his nose.

"You changed my laptop password. I need you to change it back, or tell me what it is at least."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It should be obvious. I'll unlock your computer, but you can't change the passcode without knowing the current one. You'll have to work it out."

Sherlock strode over John and bent over, carefully shielding his hands as he typed. With flourish, he tapped the enter key, and the home screen sprang up.

"There. That's your only chance," Sherlock warned, snapping the tongs ominously at the doctor.

John rolled his eyes as Sherlock retreated back into the kitchen to work on his experiment. Something about chlorophyll and its effects of growth... probably just an excuse to grow algae in a milk jug, in all honesty.

John shook his head with a smirk as he began to type, pulling back with a grunt when his fingertips brushed something wet and slimy.

"Sherlock, you got algae on my keyboard," he shouted, but the detective paid him no heed.

John was reaching for a tissue to wipe it off when he noticed the blacklight sitting on the table. He looked back to the kitchen to see if Sherlock was watching- but he was looking down into his microscope very intensely. Perhaps it was cheating a little bit, but...

John stood and gingerly set his laptop in his chair before grabbing the lamp. It looked like a regular lamp; he only knew it was a blacklight because he distinctly remembered telling Sherlock upon its arrival not to take it into his room upstairs and half-wondering what he would find in the detective's own bedroom.

He grabbed the lamp and plugged it in, reaching for a scrap of paper and a pencil. The light flickered on and he set it near his chair, the blacklight reaching just far enough to illuminate the entire keyboard.

John sighed as small red dots appeared on the keys. Luckily, whatever type of algae he was using was florescent.

John wrote down the affected keys:

'WERTUIPASHL'

The E was especially bright. John hoped that meant that it was used more than once, but he couldn't be sure. Now, what on earth could Sherlock be typing with those letters? Hopefully it was a word and not just a string of random letters, as a proper passcode should be...

He sat down again and picked up his laptop, opening his browser and typing in Google.com. Odd... it usually popped up as a suggestion.

Why wouldn't it-?

Oh.

The bastard had cleared out John's browser history.

Could that mean that Sherlock had viewed something he shouldn't have, or was he just being nosy and accidentally hit the clear button? Or maybe he thought he was doing John a favor? John had tons of adult videos saved in his bookmarks, but they were all gone now. What a prick.

John frowned as he clicked the search bar. After a moment, he typed

'words with the letters wertuipashl'

'Andy's Anagram Solver - ssynth.co.uk'

He clicked hesitantly. A light grey screen popped up, asking for the letters and word limit.

John typed the letters again, adding the extra 'E' and setting the word limit to none. Let's see what it could come up with...

For nearly ten minutes he scrolled through. None of the phrases seemed to make sense. 'aisle upthrew'...'sulphate wire'...

And then, he found it.

That had to be it. That had to be the passcode. Either that, or it was the biggest coincidence on the planet, or Sherlock was playing dirty. Never in a million years would John have thought of this, but now it did seem obvious, though perhaps a bit unbelievable.

John opened the control panel and made his way to the passcode screen.

'ENTER CURRENT PASSCODE.'

John held his breath as he typed:

'withpleasure'

It was accepted.

"Oh, well done," Sherlock purred into John's ear.

John jumped, nearly throwing his laptop across the room. "Jesus, Sherlock!"

Sherlock smirked as he made his way around John's chair, delicately picking up John's laptop and closing it, setting it aside. He sank to his knees between John's legs, experiment evidently forgotten. "Would you like to see just how pleasurable I would find it to suck your dick?"

The shudder that ran through John's body was all the answer he needed.


	7. Battlefield

The blood roared in John Watson's ears as he ducked under the bridge to the safety of the outer brick wall. The gun, firmly grasped across his chest with both hands, was slick with sweat. Adrenaline coursed through his body, his fingers and toes humming with excited energy, and under the heavy vest his heart was beating like a hummingbird's wings.

Nearby he heard someone curse as they stumbled and fell, and John peered out from around the pile of crates he was hidden behind only to pull back, just narrowly avoiding being shot.

A chuckle bubbled out of his mouth as he leaned his head back against the crate, breathing slightly laboured. Christ, he was getting out of shape. His eyes closed and he listened to the sound of running footsteps. Game plan, Watson. Strategy.

John's eyes shot open and his gun was pointed within a second, aimed directly at Sherlock Holmes' heart. It didn't shake.

Slowly, Sherlock's hands raised in a sign of peace, gun pointed to the sky. "I'm not going to get you," he smirked. "Lower your gun."

Eyeing the detective suspiciously, John relaxed his posture, arms dropping to his sides. "You're an enemy, Sherlock. I'm supposed to shoot you."

Sherlock's arms dropped and in three long strides he had John pinned against the brick wall, lips pressed against his in a desperate kiss, as if Sherlock needed John more than he needed oxygen.

John's mouth opened in protest, just long enough for Sherlock's tongue to slip in. Their tongues slid together, exploring, probing, fighting for dominance. Sherlock ground his crotch against John's abdomen, pressing his growing erection into him.

John groaned softly, nearly driven mad when Sherlock ever so gently sucked on his tongue, and it was the same tongue that swirled swirled swirled around his cock and formed such shocking profanities when John made love to him, and it was all his.

So it was a shock, really, when Sherlock pulled back without warning and aimed his gun at the older man. John hardly had the time to look indignant before Sherlock squeezed the trigger-

-and a narrow beam of light hit him squarely in the center of his red vest.

"That's not fair," John huffed, smacking Sherlock playfully on his blue vest. "My phaser's only dead for five seconds, so I'd run if I were you."

Sherlock smirked at John before dashing off, around a corner and away. John sighed with a small smile. Typical Sherlock, using his body as a distraction. It really wasn't fair, because he knew John would cave so very easily under Sherlock when he asked. Perhaps John would pay him back later, at the flat, show him a real gun and show him some very improper uses of it which he knew from experience made Sherlock cum almost embarrassingly quickly.

John looked at the small screen of his laser gun as it lit up and then he was off, looking for his next helpless victim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the tumblr prompt “take me laser tagging and then push me into a corner and kiss me. then shoot me and walk away”


	8. Abandoned Cars, Stalled Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson and Sally stared at Sherlock, waiting for a scathing response. Something sarcastic. Something witty. That was the script. But Sherlock was frozen, face completely, scarily blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW// Mention of sexual abuse and drug use, but nothing graphic.
> 
> As always, I’m too impatient for a beta or even a second read-through, so any mistakes are mine.

We stem from a root planted in the belief  
That we are not what we were called  
We are not abandoned cars stalled out and  
Sitting empty on a highway  
And if in some way we are  
Don’t worry  
We only got out to walk and get gas  
-Shane Koyczan, “To This Day”

“—and from there, the conclusion that the nephew killed him should be obvious, even for you lot.”

Sherlock Holmes finished his rapid fire explanation, removing his leather gloves with a finality that conveyed the confidence in his assessment.

Lestrade, long used to Sherlock’s peculiar style of relaying information, didn’t even blink before he turned on his heel and was in action. “Reeves, Polluck, go back to the halfway house and arrest the nephew. Jones, wrap things up here and head back to the station.”

As the D.I. vanished behind a patrol car, Anderson approached with a sneer. Despite being outside the murder house and having concluded his forensics analysis, he still wore his blue coveralls. Sherlock had told John privately that it was meant to make him seem important, but John only thought he looked ridiculous.

“Another notch in your bedpost, eh, Sherlock? Bet you’ll sleep good tonight.” He subtly made a rude gesture, but Sherlock ignored him completely, instead turning to John.

“Seeing as I deprived you of Mrs Hudson’s delicious shepherd’s pie, it’s only fair I buy you dinner. Prezzo?”

John smirked at Sherlock’s poorly disguised admission of hunger. “It’s only fair,” he agreed solemnly, smirk betraying him.

A small, gentle smile crinkled the corners of Sherlock’s eyes, but it was short lived.

“Oi, freak!”

Sherlock’s eyelids shuttered almost imperceptibly, his posture stiffening ever so slightly, face returning to his haughty mask, before he turned to respond to Sergeant Donovan.

“I see your new boyfriend prefers your N°5 over your Chance Eau Vive,” Sherlock replied in place of a greeting.

Sally’s face flushed as Anderson turned to look at her in shock.

“...and it would appear you’d yet to tell Anderson about your relationship,” Sherlock added unnecessarily after a moment’s pause. John could tell Sherlock was uncomfortable now and genuinely wasn’t aware of Anderson’s ignorance, only wanting to get a rise out of Sally, but Sally and Anderson probably didn’t see it that way.

Sally’s mouth set in a firm line, but before she could speak, Anderson cut in. “You think it’s funny, Holmes? Sticking your nose into other people’s business and mucking around? Just because nobody loves you doesn’t mean you should go around and ruin relationships.” His voice was passionate and wrung with conviction: he truly believed no one loved Sherlock Holmes, and was stating it as a given fact.

John glanced up to Sherlock, whose jaw had set. He’d gone noticeably paler, but they didn’t notice.

“You’re just jealous because everyone else is normal and have relationships but you’re a just freak who wouldn’t know what to do with a girlfriend if you somehow managed to get one,” Sally added with disgust.

Having both said their parts, Anderson and Sally stared at Sherlock, waiting for a scathing response. Something sarcastic. Something witty. That was the script. But Sherlock was frozen, face completely, scarily blank.

Sally looked to John, half amused and half annoyed. “What’s the matter, you forget to plug him in last night?”

John, too, had gone very still. He cast Sally a warning look. The Sergeant seemed to get his message and looked back up to Sherlock, now a little anxious.

Anderson, unaware of this silent exchange, snorted. “He had an update last night. John forgot to reinstall social skills. Not that it makes much of a difference.” He seemed pleased at his own cleverness, looking up at Sherlock smugly.

“John, I want you to go get a cab,” Sherlock said quietly, mouth barely moving. His voice was suspiciously calm and devoid of emotion. John, of course, didn’t move. Sherlock didn’t repeat himself.

“Right, yeah, I should probably—” Sally started with forced casualness, glaring significantly at Anderson and turning away. John was glad that she seemed to realize that they’d toed a line.

“Sally.”

She paused, turning back to the detective, seeming surprised by his casual use of her first name.

“Anderson.”

Having finally caught on, Anderson raised his chin and crossed his arms, seeming to dare Sherlock to speak. God, he really was an idiot.

“I want you to listen very carefully, because I am only going to say this once.”

John, who was rapidly crossing from concerned to alarmed, glanced at Sally in surprise. She swallowed, but seemed prepared to accept whatever punishment Sherlock was about to deliver.

John was aware that a few officers had gathered to see what was happening, including Lestrade. They made eye contact—Lestrade wanted to come intervene, but John shook his head minutely. He had a feeling it was too late to diffuse the situation.

“I was sexually abused by my father from the time I was five until I was seven.”

John felt his stomach lurch. Everyone was completely taken aback. The few whispered conversations amongst their impromptu audience died. Sally’s eyes widened a fraction, but she otherwise had no reaction. Even Anderson’s defensiveness deflated.

“I’m not sure what made him stop. I’m not sure if any of my family members were aware. I think my brother has figured it out, but at the time, no one knew.”

Sherlock paused to make sure his audience was listening, but there was no need. John was sure they would be able to hear a pin drop.

In the same strange, low, emotionless voice, Sherlock continued his story. “That was before much was known about post-traumatic stress disorder, especially in children, but I believe that what I developed would have been called hypervigilance. I began distrusting everyone I encountered; I would scan every room for exits as I entered them. I would carefully look over anyone in my presence, looking for any signs that they meant to harm me. It helped that I was already an intellectually gifted child. I saw things adults didn’t notice. Everyone had secrets, and I found them, and it made me even more suspicious of others.”

John had never heard a word of this. Based on the shocked and horrified look on Lestrade’s face, he hadn’t either.

“This continued well into my teens. By then, it was less about fearing everyone and more about having power over them. I wanted leverage. I wanted to be stronger than them. I was depressed, traumatized, and exhausted from my constant mental effort. I’d never attracted very many acquaintances due to my tendency to reveal personal secrets, and those that tried to get close I pushed away, not wanting to rely on anyone for any reason, especially since I’d grown to dislike the general public. It was so easy for me to read them, and they couldn’t even deduce why I wore long sleeves in the summer. It was only cocaine, then.”

Again he paused, and again John felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. It wasn’t until Sherlock started again that John realized he was now speaking at normal volume, voice slightly less robotic. He wondered how long Sherlock had wanted to tell this story, how many times he’d practiced it and revised it so that every word had a purpose and he got his point across exactly how he wanted it.

“Then I was entering uni, and I decided to start fresh. No more deductions, no more cocaine. Maybe I’d even make some friends. Instead, I was accused of cheating when I got a perfect score on a chemistry placement exam. My enrollment was revoked, despite my protests. It was a rather harsh punishment, but I suppose they figured they were saving themselves the trouble of dealing with me in the future, and I wasn’t technically a student yet. I didn’t want to go home to my father, and I didn’t want to ask my brother for help, so I tried getting a few jobs, but I was not well-suited for the types of jobs that teenage flunkies were stuck with.”

“That’s when I started using heroin, and then, nothing mattered. The details of that time are often lost in the haze of addiction, but I know I spent nearly a decade in and out of rehab, generously paid for by my parents; I think my father felt guilty and was trying to apologize.” For the first time, his voice had genuine emotion—half-sneering, half-disgusted—and best paused yet again, this time, seeming to recompose himself.

“Then one day, I was trying to get high in an abandoned house in Tower Hamlets, and I was propositioned for sex in exchange for drugs. I considered the offer. And that’s when I decided to get clean. So I did, and I got a flat on Baker Street, and I realized that since I couldn’t turn my brain off, I might as well use it for something, and there happened to be a rampant serial killer in the news that week, and thus my career as detective began.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked around. No one moved; no one even dared breathe. Returning his gaze to Sally and Anderson, he drew himself up into his usual haughty stance, lip curling in his usual sneer, voice dripping with its usual disdain. “So you can see why my social skills may be underdeveloped, why I don’t have a sexual or romantic relationship, and why your insinuation that I am unloved is less than appreciated.” Only the lack of spark in his eye gave away the fact that he was only putting on the haughty act.

Still, no one moved. John wasn’t sure if Anderson had blinked in several minutes, and his posture had long since sagged into one more closely resembling a cowed dog than a tough alpha-male. Sally simply stared at Sherlock; it was obvious she was starting to see Sherlock in a new light.

Seemingly satisfied, the detective turned. He addressed John as they walked away (John was several steps behind, having been frozen in shock when Sherlock began his departure.) “Now we’ve got to wait for a cab, thanks to your admittedly admirable impression of a statue. Pezzo’s?”


End file.
